The Old Wine Shades Read Online Free PDF

watching the two of them. ‘Tell me, Benny, when Sparky goes off on his own, do you think he takes in what he experiences?’
    ‘‘Takes in’?’
    ‘Understands, takes the meaning of?’
    Benny looked at Jury as if the detective were loopy. ‘A course.’
    ‘Can he tell you?’
    ‘Depends what you mean by ‘tell,’ don’t it? He can bark, he can use his eyes, his tail, his whole self. Like that circlin’ he was doin’. And you oughta remember it was Sparky got me out to that dock. It’s a good thing I were lookin’ for him, weren’t it? lie did that by runnin’ back and forth on the dock and by barkin’. Sparky’s got different barks, see. Mad, happy, dangerous–all different.’
    ‘You think all dogs are the same?’
    ‘No. Just the smart ones.’
    ‘If Sparky’d been gone for a year, what would he do?’
    ‘I’d never hear the end of it, would I?’
    Jury laughed. ‘No, I guess you wouldn’t.’ Jury got up. ‘I’ll be going now. How’s Gemma?’
    ‘She’s thinkin’ of changin’ that Richard doll’s name. You know, the one dressed all in black.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘‘Cause you come to see me and not her, I expect.’
    ‘Tell her I’ll see her soon.’
    ‘Oh, I can tell her, but she won’t believe me.’ This was uttered in a sort of Best tell her yourself, mate, tone.
    ‘‘Bye, Benny.’
    As he walked up the stairs, Mags’s voice followed. ‘Back in two murals, you’ll be.’

4
    You are quite beyond me,’ said Lady Ardry, devouring yet another fairy cake as she sat across from Melrose Plant. Granted they were quite small (a staple of children’s birthday parties), but still, this was her fifth, small or not, iced with buttercream.
    She went on: ‘You’ve got too many things here to do.’
    ‘Since I never do them, going up to London won’t make a difference, will it?’
    ‘You haven’t said why you’re going.’
    Melrose turned another slippery page of his Country Life. ‘To buy a fresh pig, but not to worry; I’ll be home again jiggedy-jig.’ Agatha shut her eyes as if in pain. ‘There are times, Melrose, I honestly think you’ve never grown up.’
    Melrose made no reply; he just raised his teacup–again wondering why Martha, his cook, used this scalloped china. There was hardly room enough in the flowery handle to blow smoke through. He turned another page of his magazine to see, in the myriad overpriced property listings, that he could buy a hovel in Little Widehips located somewhere in England–was that the Devon coast? Or perhaps Cornwall? Or the Scillys? Why was it that estate agents always assumed you knew where these places were, as if Beekeeper’s Cottage here in Little Widehips was located on the map in your mind? For all that, it could have been in Bermondsey or even Slough, which was probably the most depressing corner of England. Did anyone ever refer to ‘dear old Slough’? Melrose wouldn’t mind letting–or even buying, if he could get it no other way–Beekeeper’s Cottage, getting out of it after forty-eight hours, just so he could refer to ‘dear old Slough’ and feel his eyes mist over. Or was it his ears? Agatha had been sitting there jamming like the Grateful Dead, at least making as much noise, and he didn’t know what in hell she was talking about.
    ‘What were you saying about Boring’s?’ he asked.
    ‘I find it patently absurd that in this day and age a man would have membership in a men’s club.’
    ‘That’s what they’re there for–men.’ Melrose scratched his ear.
    ‘You know what I mean.’ She picked up one of the cream roses that Melrose knew were the very devil to make–all of that petal fluting. Meringue and strawberry cream. Why had Martha put one on the tray? Probably for him, forgetting that Agatha would vacuum up anything on the tray, yes, just as she was doing now.
    ‘What is this?’ She eyed the cream rose with suspicion. ‘It’s hard, like meringue.’
    ‘Rigor mortis.’
    Quickly she set it down